Author's note: Well, it seems that in the last few chapters, things have really started to develop in a positive direction for Loki… let's see if things will continue in that vein… ^^
Walking down the corridor, bowl in hand, he softly hums the chorus of a song whose name he can't really remember, but that he thinks contains the word 'fire'. Or maybe it was 'burning'. Whatever. It's not like it's in tune anyway.
Of course, he could easily have his robots deliver the meals straight to the bed of Stark Tower's resident convalescent, so it's not like Tony has to do it to prevent Loki from starving.
But he does it anyway.
Last time he went to see Loki, he brought another helping of books and magazines, dumping them on the bedside table for Loki's amusement – though he isn't sure just how much benefit an alien god will get from titles like The Technophile or Classic Rock of America, but it's the thought that counts – so it's not like he has to start chewing his fingertips bloody for lack of other things to do, at least.
He pushes the door open and steps inside the room. Loki doesn't move from his position in the bed, but he can feel the god's eyes tracking him like a laser beam, unwavering and steady.
The bruises are still there, of course, but at least he's gotten used to the sight by now, so they don't bother him as much as they did at first. Perhaps they've even gotten a bit more yellowish around the edges, but that might just be his imagination. He realizes that since that rather memorable occasion when he offered the god some old hand-me-downs and Loki took that as an incentive to undress on the spot, Tony hasn't seen him wearing anything else than a full set of clothes, not until he landed himself in bed blacker and bluer than the supporter stand during an Inter Milan soccer match.
At least the gauntness he remembers from that little flasher incident is gone now, having been replaced by a healthier, more natural slenderness.
He puts his offering down on the piles of books and flashy magazines littering the bedside table. It's obviously a far too small gesture to make up for the recent disaster, but it's something, at least.
"Ice cream?" he says, indicating the bowl with the spoon sticking up from it.
Loki furrows his brow, tilting his head slightly. "Ice cream?" he echoes Tony's words with slightly more inflection.
Tony gestures to the bowl. "Correct, Rudolph, ice cream. You remember that cold and fluffy stuff we stopped to eat on the way back home during our last Midgardian field trip?"
The confusion in Loki's face lets up at that, wrinkled eyebrows flattening out to be replaced by a look of understanding. "Yes, I remember," comes the answer, as green eyes lock onto the bowl, curiously studying it. "But why… this?"
"It's a Midgardian tradition." Tony clarifies. "If you're unwell and stuck in bed, you get to eat ice cream. It's how we do things here."
He then reaches out for one of the little white packages lying on the bedside table, tearing the side of it open. "And I should probably get that thing on your forehead changed too while I'm at it," he adds, gesturing at the protective pad plastered just above Loki's right eyebrow.
Loki doesn't move as Tony sits himself down on the side of the bed, and then reaches over to carefully pull the pad loose from the skin beneath, the fingers of his left hand resting against the god's temple. He's careful not to touch the cut beneath, but it looks like it's healing well enough.
Discarding the old pad, he carefully fastens the new one with some strings of tape, pressing down lightly to make sure the thing will stick.
"There you go," he says, leaning back to admire his work. "As good as new."
Gingerly, Loki raises a hand to touch his forehead, eyebrows slightly wrinkled as if he's surprised by something, despite this not being the first time that Tony has put on a new pad for him. Whatever it was that gave him pause like that, the god doesn't make any comment on it, though.
"Well," Tony says as he stands up, bed creaking slightly as his weight is removed, "I have a boring and pointless meeting to attend, so I'm out of here. Don't forget your ice cream, though, or it's going to melt."
Sure, the ice cream is a small recompense to offer for losing Loki in the subway and then having him pay the price for it, but it's better than nothing.
Of course, that's what he's trying to tell himself, though the real reason for bringing it doesn't have much to do with trying to offer recompense or with Midgardian traditions. It has more to do with remembering the look of contentment and delight on Loki's face as he bit into that ice cream cone on a street corner somewhere between Starbucks and Pizza Hut.
Though he wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself, he's really glad for the little bottle of white pills that Bruce left for him on the bedside table.
His ribcage still throbs dully, like a persistent memory refusing to let go of past injustices, but it's not the sharp, acute sting of a thousand needles anymore. As long as he doesn't move around too much, the pain remains at acceptable levels, even though he can hear that his breathing is shallower, a bit more laboured than usual.
But apart from that, there is a more unexpected sensation occupying his sensibilities as well.
Though Tony left the room several minutes ago, his forehead is still tingling beneath the imprint of the man's fingers on his skin. And it's odd how such a casual touch can linger for such an extended time, long after the cause of it has left the room with a final enquiry to himself whether he should wear a nurse's uniform next time.
But then again, perhaps it's not so strange, given his unaccustomedness to gentle touches that aren't meant to hurt, his long stint in the dungeons having habituated him to the brutal hands of the guards to such an extent that his body now reacts strangely to anything else.
Content with that explanation, he turns to the ice cream inexplicably left for him on the bedside table, greedily wolfing down every last spoonful.
"Okay, so does this look at all familiar?" Tony asks with a little bit of gloat in his voice, indicating the flat wooden board he's just spread out between them on the edge of the bed and the plastic bag lying to the side, filled to the brim with little black and white pieces.
Loki studies the things, but his mind comes up blank. Whatever it is, it's clearly of a Midgardian nature.
"No, I don't believe it does. Should it?" he replies, a hint of piqued curiosity in his voice. Despite the books, he's really bored in here and any break of the tedious monotony, however small, is welcome.
Tony's face falls a little. "Well, it's supposed to be some ancient Norse board game," he huffs, looking affronted. "I came across it in some store earlier today and the salesman told me it was based on some old Viking board game. 'Hnefatafl' it was called, though I probably pronounced that at least twenty shades of wrong."
Hnefatafl. Oh, now he sees it. Despite Tony's atrocious pronunciation and the very different visual style of the board and the game pieces from what he's used to, the similarities are clear to him now. Upon closer inspection, he can even make out the helmets and armour carved into the material of the pieces, vaguely resembling Asgardian Einherjers.
And Loki has played this game more times than he can remember, though sparsely in the last few centuries as he hasn't had an opponent worthy of the effort. Even the mighty Thor wanted to learn the game once, smitten by the similarities of the game strategy and real battle tactics, but when Loki finally sat down to teach him, Thor's lack of patience and understanding of the intricate rules ended with him turning the board upside down in frustration, stomping out to swing his sword on the training grounds instead.
This game is still played by the humans?
"It looks different, but it is indeed Hnefatafl," he admits, rolling one of the white pieces between his fingers. A part of him is rejoicing at finally being faced with something that is familiar and that he can recognize, in this alien realm filled with so many things he's unable to relate to. "Though I wouldn't have thought that this was still remembered in Midgard."
Loki's words bring the previous pleased-with-himself look back onto Tony's face, like it was never gone at all. "Well, the salesman did mention something about the rules of the game not having quite survived until modern age, so some of it's been reconstructed." He holds out a little folder with minuscule text written on it to Loki, who accepts it.
After half a minute or so, he puts the thin brochure down on the sheets, shaking his head. "The rules in here are all wrong. This is not how you play." He should have expected it, of course, that the humans would twist the game into something unrecognizable.
Tony raises a quizzical eyebrow in his direction. "Well, are you going to teach me how it's done, then?"
It's strange, because in a way it's almost a little like being in Asgard again, like having a tiny slice of his old life back, even if it's just temporary.
And all because of a board game.
As he sits there with the game pieces – foreign in their looks but yet so strikingly familiar – moving them around on the board to show Tony how it's done, he doesn't think about being a slave or being trapped here in Midgard. Not when he's allowed to immerse himself in this well-known game, having all the feelings and memories associated with it wash over him, drowning everything else out.
For once, he gets to do something here that he knows how to, something that he's actually good at. And not just that, but something that he truly and fully masters.
And as the rules have all been explained and they start their first game, he doesn't even think about how slaves aren't supposed to best their masters in anything, as he effortlessly corners and then outmanoeuvres Tony's pieces.
So… can anyone say "FLUFF"? :D
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